


Fear No More That Which We Seek

by HollowMachines



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, discussions of religion written by someone who is not religious in the least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23863444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowMachines/pseuds/HollowMachines
Summary: At the ends of the world, some men find faith. Some men find peace. Some men find truth.Some men find each other.
Relationships: Lt John Irving/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	Fear No More That Which We Seek

**Author's Note:**

> Despite coming away from this show not really shipping anything, something about this tiny little rarepair really intrigues me. This is inspired in small part by bits of what I'd skimmed of some of the real John Irving's letters, and in large part by a similar conversation from another series I was watching at the time of writing.

It’s a strange occurrence to walk the decks of _Terror_ with only the ghosts of her crew still aboard. He hears more creaks of wood and moans of encroaching ice than he does of her few inhabitants. It only adds an eeriness to the long dark of the winter season, a sense of foreboding and engulfing loneliness, even knowing their masses lie only a short hike away across frozen plains. A walk Edward is becoming less and less inclined to make.

But he must; not to satisfy his Captain’s drunken exploits, but rather to bear his role in his absence as a result. Many nights he’s had his sleep halted by the Captain’s sufferings, be it the yelling and cursing, the violent upheavals, or the wanton begging for relief. A hardy man brought to such animalistic tendencies is pitiful and maddening, and Edward keeps those haunting cries locked deep in the back of his mind, desperate to be rid of them. How Jopson handles it he'll never know, but the man carries on in a diligent fervour tending to their Captain.

So Edward can do little else now but act accordingly, both under Captain Fitzjames and as Crozier’s second. A far cry from home and at the very ends of civilization, his first command is an involuntary thrusting upon of duties, and though he doesn’t begrudge Crozier his choice, he does wonder if this trial he’s been put upon will build or break his resolve. Even the revelations of a Carnivale on the ice does little to lighten his mood.

The echoing toll of the Midwatch follows him down into the lower deck, bouncing around the ship’s belly like rattling glass. Once the bells fade out it’s blissfully quiet save for the shifting groan of the pack ice slowly devouring the ship. There’s no unsettling noises from the Captain’s cabin, and in silence he prays both he and his Captain receive a decent night’s rest for a change.

What little warmth the ship offers works a tingle across his cold-blasted skin, his fingers and toes prickling in a desperate attempt to revive themselves. He wonders if Dr. MacDonald is as weary as Edward is himself every time he wanders into the sick bay, nervous of the moment frostbite will finally start hacking away at his body. Perhaps it would be preferable to get it over with, rather than suffer the sharp pains of flesh sparking back to life, leaving him limping and stunted in the most basic of tasks.

What keeps him from the call of sleep tonight however is not his Captain nor the cold nor _Terror’_ s skeleton crew, but instead a faint strip of light thrown across the path to his berth. It’s immediately apparent it’s coming from Irving’s cabin, through the door left ajar just enough that it can only have been accidental.

It’s unusual for Irving to be up so late when off duty. He’s never known the man to be a rough sleeper, least not that he’s ever said. Edward doesn’t dare look in, but he can’t hear anything indicative of trouble; he can’t hear anything at all, in fact.

Edward’s quiet steps come to a halt just outside the door, mindful of what he could be disturbing.

What stays his hand from knocking softly on the wood is the traitorous corner of his mind that has always turned him from Irving’s cabin. It feels like a sacred place, some holy ground he feels unfit to tread upon. Least that is what he imagines Irving may think, if he knew how Edward’s thoughts had turned to him both in the innocence of his waking hours and in the privacy of his own bed.

He’s not sure when it started, exactly.

Perhaps sometime after they lost Sir John, or perhaps it was after Lieutenant Gore. After harsh reminders of their own mortality and the fear that any day could be their last in this unpredictable and hostile land.

Or maybe it was even earlier, somewhere across the Atlantic, as they’d stood shoulder to shoulder upon the upper deck, watching the waves and trying to gain some form of familiarity with each other. That was when Edward had first seen a full and bright smile from Irving, a response to some tale he’d told of home and his family.

Perhaps it had happened later on, after their Captain had had men flogged, when Edward had seen the unreadable tension upon Irving’s face. At that moment he recalled how Irving had once told him of his ventures to start anew in Australia. The way his eyes shone with melancholy, begging to live a quieter, simpler life than here, watching men debase themselves. Something in the pit of Edward’s stomach suddenly feared meeting a cat o'nine himself, and only then did he have a reason as to why. _Dirtiness_.

He’d spent many nights contemplating his possible fate should his heart be revealed, or worse, acted upon. The Articles are clear, as is the law, yet never before has he needed to reflect them on himself in such a manner.

So he’d sat through Sunday sermons and sat with his own thoughts for hours waiting for some sign of his indecency, some sign of his punishment. But it did not come, nor did those thoughts wither no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he was simply going mad.

Then, eventually, as the long dark proceeded to zap all but his final vestiges of strength, he finally conceded that he couldn’t be anything but himself. A weight lifted off him in that acceptance and in defiance of his own fears.

What he can admit to himself is that somewhere in those youthful eyes and soft-spoken voice and calm assurance, Irving has stirred something in Edward’s heart, something he risks admitting may come close to love. There’s no explanation he can even fully provide for it, but nevertheless it weighs like an anchor in his chest, begging him to take Irving - _John_ \- away from this mess, back to his home and far from the perils of this expedition.

But he cannot, so he must settle for companionship, setting upon himself the added charge of caring for a man he knows he has no right to covet as he does.

Finally with firm resolve he knocks on the door, a drum beat interrupting the quiet.

He receives no answer from within, but still he hesitates to pry, his hand hovering over the wood.

"Lieutenant Irving?"

Again, no answer.

It'd be intrusive, surely. Yet his curiosity and concern finally get the best of him. He slides the door open just enough to lean in, taking a moment to adjust to the dim glow of the oil lamp. 

Irving is sitting at the edge of his berth, elbows resting on his knees and his head pressed into clasped hands. He's still in uniform save for his coat which is laid flat on the bed next to him, and his sleeves are pushed up his arms, collar slightly undone. A worn book - it's cover laden with dull, swooping letters - sits unopened by his pillow.

At first Little thinks he's praying, as he does most nights before bed, but when he steps in he sees Irving's eyes are open, a dull glimmer caught in the warm lamplight. There’s an agedness to him made worse by the shadows hung across his face and the subtle growth of his beard that Edward hasn’t thought too much on until now. Admittedly it's a look that suits him well, though the added creases of exhaustion along his brow and under his eyes are a tragedy. 

Something about the floor seems to have Irving captivated, though it's soon clear his mind has been carried off somewhere far beyond the ice. He looks much too small a figure than he should, and it turns something in Edward’s already strained stomach.

“John?” he tries again, mindful of the way the name slips so easily off his tongue. 

Finally Irving’s glassy eyes snap back to life, and his dazed expression lifts to Edward in the doorway. He seems surprised to see anyone at all.

“Lieutenant Little.” Irving’s voice is hoarse from disuse, a distracting sound. “Can I do something for you?”

Edward shakes his head slowly and ignores any intrusive thoughts his overtired mind tries to conjure up to such a question at this hour. 

“No, no, I just saw the light. I worried you may be unwell.”

Irving wrings his hands idly in the silence, drawing Edward’s eyes to the bandages wrapped around his fingers.

It had been of great concern when Irving had appeared before him a few days ago with his hand so thoroughly roughed up, but he did not provide an explanation, and Edward was too busy and far too cowardly to push the subject. 

“You’ve the burden of a ship’s crew to command in our Captain’s absence, Lieutenant. You needn't fuss over her officers, as well,” Irving says calmly.

“Are you _not_ part of the crew, then?”

Thankfully Irving takes the words with some humour, and his lips quirk just a little.

“How fares our Captain?”

A long sigh, then Edward says, “He’s in the thick of it, now. When it’ll let up, I cannot say.”

“I couldn’t imagine a worse time,” Irving mutters, but his tone is sympathetic rather than harsh. If anything, he seems saddened.

Curious, Edward risks venturing onto consecrated ground, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door behind him. Now sealed in, he hovers in the small, private space, unsure of how to proceed. He feels much too large all of a sudden. For a moment he fears Irving, by some omniscience, can hear the rapid pound of his heart, or sense the unease rolling off him.

“Something’s troubling you.” Edward doesn’t offer it as a question.

Irving’s posture tightens and his eyes cast down again.

He has never been an outspoken man, seemingly preferring the company of books to people. It takes persistence to get him to hold conversations, though Edward at least has found it rewarding when he succeeds in that venture. But Irving rarely offers his thoughts willingly, save for during Mass. He is a solitary man, and at times there's a worrying air of loneliness about him. There’s a concerning disconnect between himself and the other officers.

Edward steps forward. He'll blame his sleep-deprived mind for his recklessness later, but right now he wants nothing more than to relieve Irving of that seclusion.

The weary ache of his joints is of greater discomfort than he should like as he kneels slowly before Irving, careful to meet those watchful eyes, like trying not to startle a spooked animal. Without a word or a diversion of his gaze he takes Irving's right hand between his own, keeping his hesitation well-hidden under a petty offer of warmth. There’s a questioning look on Irving’s face, but he neither moves nor speaks, so Edward swallows and continues.

The bandages are rough under his touch as he gently strokes along the skin, still visibly reddened and bruised and horrid.

He should ask again - he _wants_ to ask again, to push for an answer even if only to soothe his own worries on the matter - but he knows Irving will still refuse to tell him their origins.

So he keeps a respectable silence as he flips Irving's hand over, fingers gliding along his palm and down to dance along the pulse of his wrist. There he finds a steady beat that jumps to life under his feather-light touch. It’s rare that he’s allowed to be so delicate. He continues to rub slow circles across flesh, fully lost in his own ministrations.

It’s surprising that Irving has not pulled away or accused him of some blasphemous behaviour yet. He’s certainly pushing boundaries he’s never dared before, save for in the confines of his own mind, and he’s not known among the men for being overly physical. There's no excuse on his tongue to explain himself.

But no, Irving only sits with his shoulders a sunken line, unmoved and transfixed. In fact, were Edward a more hopeful man, he may mistake the look in the man’s eyes for headiness.

Turning Irving's hand back over, Edward curls fingers around his palm, gently rubbing his thumb in a rhythmic caress over the knuckles, far too long and with deeper intention than could be considered appropriate. There’s no hiding the underlying implications, and his rational mind tells him to stop, to pull back and excuse himself from this intimacy he’s created.

But he’s a starved man, and Irving is allowing him his fill.

"May I confide in you, if you swear never to breathe a word to anyone?” Irving says, so softly, so enraptured Edward could imagine he was sleepwalking.

He continues his soothing strokes across the back of Irving's hand. “Of course. If it will ease your mind.”

What's one more confession, out here at the ends of the world?

There's a long bout of silence as Irving's eyes shift from Edward's face, to the door, to the floor, to their joined hands. Edward only continues to watch in silence, ignoring the burning ache in his legs, refusing to move from his place of genuflection. 

“I've always believed," Irving finally speaks quietly, as if he dares not be heard. "God sees us in all places. Yet lately, I find myself wondering... _thinking..._ "

He stops again and Edward can't fathom the strange flicker of pain that crosses the man's face. His brows have pulled in, mouth hanging open slightly as if the words have turned viscous in his throat.

There's doubt in his eyes; never a sentiment Irving would dare parallel with God, so strong is his faith. To see him so vulnerable - something sinks heavily in Edward’s stomach at the very thought.

When Irving speaks again, it’s with such defeat that Edward can’t help but squeeze his hand tighter in sympathy.

"I cannot imagine He is with us here. Each time I raise my voice in prayer I find myself wondering who, if anyone, is really listening.”

Edward shakes his head, though he’s unsure himself if it’s denial or disbelief. “You truly believe that?”

“I…” Irving’s expression is one of utter helplessness, his fingers tightening around Edward’s, desperate for anchoring. “I simply struggle to understand why we’ve been made to suffer here. What crime are we being punished for?”

Never has Edward wished more that he was a braver man. It’s a physical pain to keep himself from moving to embrace Irving. His body hums with an overpowering need to hold and protect. He wishes he could lay his mouth on every inch of his skin, rub careful hands over his entire being as if his very touch could rekindle his soul and seal the cracks in his faith.

"Perhaps… we've truly been abandoned," Irving murmurs at last.

It’s a heavy silence that follows.

If even Irving - so maintained by his devotion - can lose himself to this wasteland, then what can any man do?

 _Take him home_ , Edward wants to throw himself before God and demand. _Take this man home and never let the harshness of the world harm him again._

He dares to touch; just a little bit more. He settles his free hand on Irving's knee, nothing more than a warm and heavy weight. It rests there a moment longer, then another, and another. When Irving doesn’t protest, Edward relaxes fully, stroking his thumb idly over the seam of his trousers, offering another mooring for this poor lost soul before him.

“No man is ever truly abandoned.” Edward keeps his voice level and low, his touch drawing those youthful eyes to him.

_Is it not the greatest act of love to be allowed to live as oneself? Is freedom really so wrong?_

A sentiment he’s carefully crafted to justify his own selfish thoughts. Should he confess his blasphemy; admit he can allow himself to feel for Irving as he does or survive as he does under the guise that God no longer watches nor cares?

He’s asked himself many times, and still has no answer, and he’s long given up on looking to the Heaven’s for one.

If he had some temperament for poetry the way Irving has for his sketches, he’d perhaps be some amateur writer of tragedies by now.

Irving has gone quiet but his eyes are thoughtful, catching the golden glow of the light. He's leaned in close enough that Edward can hear the shallowness of his breathing and catch the smell of old wood, of books, of sweat and frost. It would be easy to succumb to his urges and move just that little bit closer, but he catches himself quickly, averting his eyes before they stray too low.

"We are at the edges of the world,” he continues hastily. “I don’t think we’re being punished, but maybe we’re simply being made to reforge ourselves.”

Irving sighs heavily, his eyes falling shut. “I would have thought the same, not so long ago."

“I wish I had a better answer to give you.” His voice drips with earnestness watching Irving sink back into his thoughts again.

Edward has had much too long to dwell on these thoughts already. In some sense, he's simply too _tired_ to care anymore whether God’s prying eyes may see them - see _him_. If repentance is to come, it will in due time.

But right now he knows names and faces and homes. There are real men under his command suffering illnesses and cold, facing starvation and the wrath of some otherworldly monster. He is needed in the here and now, with or without God’s intervention. His faith has not so much withered as he has tethered it somewhere far behind them, to await his eventual return with a clearer mind.

“Tell me, then,” Irving stands, suddenly enlivened and forcing Edward to stumble back to his feet along with him, “if we’re truly alone here, unobserved and untouched and unheard, where do you turn to in your darker hours?”

The question takes him aback, and Edward can feel the eyes lingering on him. Irving’s voice is heavy with intent, seeking any answer to replace his own failings.

Their hands slip apart - a disappointing sensation - but Irving hovers close, so close that the few inches he has on Edward are almost overbearing. Even so, Irving feels the smaller of the too, even if only in presence. Edward’s eyes hover over the soft features of his face, the widened pale of his eyes, the slow draw of his tongue over dry lips.

“I trust in myself,” Edward mutters, and damn his eyes for wandering up to follow that trace of movement across his mouth. “And the other officers. We’ve a good crew, and I’ve my responsibilities to keep me grounded.”

_Buried would be more apt._

He shudders to think what he’s to do should Crozier not recover. Should the Natives of this land attack, or should that creature return. Should they never find leads, should the ships never answer to the helm again and the crew are forced to abandon, should the food run out and illness set in…. 

Atop that mountain stands his worry for Irving, as well. A young officer with a soul meant for more innocent things. It’s no crime, but out here in such dire straits it can be lethal.

Edward knows a thing or two about reining in animals. Pull too hard and a horse will buck. Give it too much slack and it will take control right out from under you. A certain balance of command and self-mastery must be maintained. It’s difficult for him to imagine any extreme depravity from the men, but he cannot completely deny it’s possibility should the situation only continue to worsen. Therein lies the issue.

There’s cracks in Irving's authority, like a porcelain mask ill-fitted to his face, bearing stress lines from the weight of a rank he struggles to hold with confidence. It’s worse now seeing him folding in on his convictions, making it easier for those cracks to be prised open by seamen at their wit’s end.

What Edward carries, he knows Irving cannot, though not for a lack of intellect or integrity. Nor would he wish it upon him. Irving thrives on control and order, and this weathered Arctic wasteland offers neither. He is a keen enough soul, but a crumbling spirit.

A crumbling spirit practically prostrating himself before Edward of all people, seeking guidance and reassurance. The former he can only offer as best he’s able, and the latter he longs to demonstrate in all the ways Christian teachings would abhor.

It doesn’t help him now, then, that Irving is still so temptingly close, and has not shied away as the space continues to dissolve between them. Edward doesn’t allow himself to hope outside of the privacy of his dreams, yet he can’t help but brush a hand over Irving’s arm as some small offer of comfort.

Irving is considering him with an unreadable expression, but whether intentionally or not he leans into the touch, and damn it all if it doesn’t spark some warmth in Edward’s chest. This man will be his undoing.

“Trust in oneself,” Irving mumbles distractedly. “Then surely I cannot be punished for…"

Again he stops, his eyes widening when he looks to Edward before his gaze falls to the floor hurriedly.

The silence is deafening.

_For… what?_

It’s not just a lacking comfort in his faith, then.

"Tell me," Edward says eagerly with an encouraging squeeze of his hand.

“I've been... considering a great many things,” Irving speaks stuntedly, like he's seeking validity in his words. “In all our variations and complexity, we must be born how we are intended to be, by our God-given nature. Therefore it would be unethical, even unnatural, to contest His creation. We are all part of a greater architectural design, are we not?”

Irving is expecting a response, but Edward is so perplexed he can only nod slowly.

“I suppose?"

Though it may not be the intention, Edward can’t help but turn those words on himself. In all his self-reflection he's never once presumed that maybe, in fact, he was always meant to feel as he does. That it's simply how he was born. He isn't wrong, he isn’t defying some holy rhetoric, but is in fact purposeful, intended by God. He can't decide if that reassures him or not.

Edward keeps a hand firm on Irving's arm, his forefinger dragging over the exposed skin just below the sleeve, teasing under the cuff.

Where this is going, Edward can only guess, but his intrigue is certainly piqued now.

“Whatever it is you fear won’t reflect poorly. Be easy with yourself.”

Irving takes a sharp breath through his nose, his head tilted and his eyes finally coming up to find and hold Edward’s gaze. Like he’s testing the waters.

“I’m going to make another request of you,” he speaks slowly with a hint of uncertainty. “Though it is a selfish one.”

How can Edward make him understand that, should Irving ask, he would do most anything for him?

The best he can say is, “If you wish, speak it.”

There’s risk here, but he cannot escape the temptation, too enraptured by this hopeful flower among the weeds. He’s hammering against old, sturdy walls, desperate for Irving to concede to reality. If he will not pull away now, then Edward cannot help but continue to push like the ravenous man he is.

With only slight hesitation, Irving settles his bandaged right hand atop Edward’s on his arm, curling his fingers tightly so as not to be misunderstood.

“I would find it a great comfort if you would confide in me as I have with you, and… should you find yourself in need, perhaps we could… find solace in one another."

Edward looks at him for a long while, the green of his eyes suddenly mesmerizing, the heat of his palm scalding. Irving is flushed, his expression an open book of a million flurried thoughts. Some part of him seems skeptical of his own words, as if they’ve slipped from his lips unwarranted.

But he doesn’t pull away or reiterate or stumble for an explanation. No, he bears himself for Edward to see, to consider the weight of his words.

“Whatever burdens you carry for the sake of the men,” Irving adds, barely above a whisper. “You needn't carry them here. With me.”

An auspicious proposition, but quite unexpected.

For a moment Edward fears it’s a trick of some kind. He’ll simply awaken in his berth, the victim of a pleasant dream brought about by restlessness and stress and cold. But there’s too many aches and needles in his skin for him to be asleep.

Perhaps then it’s Irving who is not in his right mind. Except he is very much clear-eyed, and there’s no lingering hints of alcohol about, nor remedies for his wounds that would impair his judgement.

It’s like being out on the ice flows, where any misstep could send him to a watery grave. Edward is afraid to speak; to so much as _breathe_. If he moves now he may shatter the very air around them.

He doesn’t mean to let the silence hang for so long, but his words are all trapped inside him. It’s difficult to conjure an adequate response.

“Have I... read the situation wrong?” Irving says suddenly, and the tinge of fear in his voice is jarring, bringing a horrible tightness to the stomach as his hand falls away.

Edward jumps to catch it, squeezing a bit too tightly around Irving’s fingers to keep him close.

"No, not at all, I just… What you’re suggesting, what it is you're _offering,_ you must understand that I need to be sure of your intentions?”

Irving bows his head, whether in silent prayer or in condemnation is unclear. But he leans closer, and Edward sets his free hand gently on Irving’s other arm to hold him.

“Not so long ago, I condemned men for this temptation.” Irving’s entire face tightens for a moment, his eyes squeezing shut only to flutter open a second later. “But when my mind turns to these thoughts now, it's as if I’ve lost a battle. I read of divine love in all things, and I find myself… _wanting_.”

A breath catches in Edward’s throat when he feels the heavy weight of Irving’s gaze upon him, daring him to latch onto those burning embers of hope.

“Does that trouble you?”

A pause, then quietly, “Not as it should. As it once would have.”

Gently Edward pulls him in close, wrapping arms around shoulders. For a moment he fears he's being too bold, but then hands settle hesitantly on his back in return and Irving slumps into his hold with a relieved sigh. The rise and fall of his chest is reminiscent of a weight being dropped, and Edward cradles him tighter, bleeding affection as best he can.

How long has Irving waited for this; to speak his mind so freely in an attempt to justify the fractures between his faith and his heart? At the ends of the earth, in the cold wilds of uncertain lands, how much longer would he have gone on refusing to acknowledge himself? How long would he have gone on denying himself this comfort, as if a punishment for daring to long for something sweeter?

Edward is a fool to not have come to him sooner.

He moves purposefully, unwinding his arms from around Irving to cup his face between warmed hands, a thumb caressing gently along his jaw and through the scruff of his beard. He pulls the man down to settle their foreheads together, the space between them dissolving into almost nothing.

It’s gone deathly quiet save for the creaking moans of the ship and the pounding in his ears. Edward's skin has flushed, almost burning, and his hands erupt in excitable tremors. They're sharing breath, nearly sharing a heartbeat. His view is nothing but the softened features of Irving’s face and the rosy pallor of his cheeks and the glint of cool green.

 _It would not be so terrible to lose oneself in this_.

Irving's fingers dig deep into the thick of Edward’s greatcoat with a heady look lingering in his eyes.

"No man has ever vexed me quite like you."

 _When did that start,_ Edward has to wonder. How long has it been; did it happen trapped in the ice or back upon the waves? How had Irving’s heart turned so wistfully to Edward in such a way? Moreover, could Edward truly be so lucky, here of all places, to be gifted such a precious thing? It all seems too fanciful, and yet here they stand.

Perhaps Irving is simply beguiled. It’s clear he holds Edward in high regard, a perfect image of a decidedly imperfect man. But this cursed expedition has soured his soul, faced him against the elements and savage wastes and _spirits_. Now he carries the crew; Crozier's pistol is the heaviest weight he's ever had to bear.

Were it his choice, Edward would never set foot on the ice again, but he simply forces himself onward as his rank and his duty demand.

How long can he continue to do so, though? How long before Irving sees the cracks in him too?

Then again, perhaps he already has; perhaps that’s what this is all about.

He hasn’t the heart to ask anything.

“Please,” Edward murmurs instead. “Please, John, tell me you understand what it is you’re saying?"

It's as if his sanity hangs on this moment. He's not sure he could survive another cruel twist of fate should this come crumbling down.

Irving’s mouth parts for a moment in cowed silence before he answers.

“I do, and I no longer know whether it's right or wrong. But regardless, when I go to God, it shall not be as a liar. I can only confess myself as I am.”

All this madness, and it has finally driven them here, each pursuing their own personal daylight amidst this persistent night. What a tragedy to think this is what it took to bring them to this, and that this place is the only one where they can dare to try.

Edward pulls him in, noses brushing, lips achingly close, an invitation to finally drink from this fountain of sin. Irving follows him down, crowding him nearly against the wall. Difficult as it is, Edward forces himself to wait and allow him to be the one to seal their fate as he needs.

"Will you stop me?" Irving whispers against his mouth.

It’s not as if Edward has any more experience in this… _this,_ but he's come to terms with himself. He’s cast off his doubts. Now he’s only laden with his wants, the only escape he has from this horrid place. He’ll not deprive himself of this one miracle so modestly offered to him.

"Never."

The first kiss is chaste, barely more than a slow, soft press of lips, dried and chapped from vicious cold. Irving’s grip goes just a bit tighter around Edward’s wrists, but otherwise he's pliant, leaning into his touch, seeking out his mouth.

It’s certainly nothing magical, yet something ignites deep in Edward’s chest; a sense of fullness, like a banishing of the dark edges of his soul. He breathes deep through his nose as he draws their mouths together again, a small noise of contentment coming up from his throat. Excitement thrashes around in his stomach, his heart an erratic pounding against his ribs.

For a moment there's no ship to command, no cold, no hunger, no vengeful creature. The ice doesn’t crackle and groan under his feet, the air doesn’t burn his cheeks, the snow doesn’t strike him blind. There's just this fondness, pure euphoria in the form of persistent hands and eager lips.

It's the best he's felt in a long while.

Suddenly Irving turns his head, effectively breaking the kiss, his mouth hanging open and huffing as if he's just hiked for miles. His eyes are closed, his fingers trembling slightly. But he hasn't put any space between them so Edward pulls in close, pressing his lips to Irving's skin in a slow and reassuring line of feather-light kisses up his jaw and along his cheek.

"Your heart," Edward breathes against the shell of his ear. "Isn’t deserving of your shame."

Irving makes a strained noise in his throat, a vibration felt through both their bodies that sets Edward's blood on fire.

In an instant he has them spun around with Irving's back pushed hard up against the cabin door. Edward is on him again with a renewed vigour, crushing their bodies together, all mouth and wandering hands, forcing Irving to strain and adjust. Small satisfied noises escape him as he grips tight to Edward’s shoulders, swallowing all these new, foreign sensations burning the edges of his sanity.

It must be overwhelming for Irving to suddenly allow this kind of intrusion upon his person. It’s all Edward can do to stop himself from drinking in more, or doing what he will to thoroughly defile him.

Their mouths draw back together with a near-bruising intensity. Dragging his hands up along the curve of Irving's spine, Edward's fingers dance along fabric and dig into muscle, finding the slightest raise of bone and sinew where rationing is starting to take its toll. Even so he smiles against Irving's mouth when he feels a returned pair of arms wrapping around his shoulders; holding close, pulling in, demanding more.

Even in his inexperience Irving possesses an endearing passion that Edward is all too happy to devour.

He draws Irving in closer with a hand around the back of his head, lacing fingers through the thick of his hair. Swallowing an exhilarated groan from Irving at the tight pull, he tries to ignore the flare of arousal imagining all the different debauched nothings he could pull from the man. What passionate keening would Edward be privy to, deep in the throes?

The cold has clearly addled his brain some.

Quickly growing desperation keeps his hands clawing and persistent. He draws his mouth away - a surprisingly difficult task, especially when Irving leans in to follow - only to drag his lips down to taste along his jaw, nipping at bared skin and course hair. Another enticing hum keeps Edward exploring down, scraping teeth across the curve of his throat, breath scolding across soft flesh. He doesn't miss the subtle jump of muscle under his touch nor the biting grip of fingers at his back, but still Irving only angles his head indulgently, allowing Edward to continue, so he does, coupled with the slow caress of needy hands.

Emboldened Edward presses their bodies together fully with a reflexive thrust of his hips against Irving's thigh. In his intoxicated stupor the friction is a delicious relief, so much so that he forgets himself, reaching lower to dig desperate hands into Irving's hips. But there’s no way Irving misses his excitement so evidently pressed against him, nor how his own body is responding.

He jerks away with a groan, turning into a rigid mass in Edward's arms.

Immediately Edward stops too, as if arctic water has been splashed in his face, seeping into his blood. His mind rushes back from the haziness.

Mortified he draws back enough to seek out Irving's face, careful to keep himself at a proper distance. Only his hands remain, gripped around Irving's upper arms.

It’s a small victory that Irving doesn't pull away, though he's gone quiet, a hint of pink across his face caught in the light of the oil lamp.

"Forgive me, I…" his mouth hangs open, lips red and abused and unable to form a word.

This is exactly what Edward had feared; the last thing he wants to do is scare Irving away.

"No, no, don't," he says quickly. "I shouldn't have… I didn’t _intend_ to—"

"I know… I know. It’s alright.”

This is too daunting a breach of all prior decorum, and must be handled slowly and tactfully. Yet clearly a line has been overstepped, one Edward had no intention of crossing.

The guilt leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“Would you like me to go?”

He's already angling himself towards the door, hands falling dejected to his sides and feeling thoroughly emptied.

But Irving surprises him, reaching for his arm quickly, fingers catching the sleeve. “No, don’t…”

The grip isn’t demanding but it is sturdy, and Edward stops again, fixated on that hand; a single spark of hope that he hasn’t made a mess of this too.

It's a long silence that follows, but when Irving speaks again he’s calm, eyes flitting from Edward's face to the floor and back with a sigh.

"We're certainly a long way from Greenhithe, aren't we?"

An exhausted laugh forces its way out of Edward's mouth. His first genuine one in weeks.

“We’re a long way from most things.”

_Home. Rescue. God. Our former selves._

The relaxed tone is reassuring, at least, and the fall of Irving’s shoulders is permission enough for Edward to settle a firm hand at the small of his back. After a few quiet moments of respite in each other’s arms - of mingled breath and shared warmth - he’s surprised by hands cupping his face. There’s a quick press of lips to his but he can barely react before Irving is pulling away.

“You’re a good man, Edward,” he says genuinely. “Thank you.”

What he’s being thanked for, he doesn’t know, yet even so it lifts a weight from his shoulders.

 _We will live_ , his heart sings as he brings Irving’s hand up. Cupped delicately between his own, he pours all the endearments he can’t say into open-mouthed kisses along every inch of bruised skin. A silent promise to endeavour with all his strength to safely return them home.

Without taking his eyes away from his hand being so lovingly indulged, Irving says, “Will you stay with me awhile?"

Of course Edward would never forgo even an offer as simple as that.

They sit for some time in Irving’s berth, pressed together from shoulder to knee, listening to the ship's bell toll their time away in a mixture of bookish conversation and quiet contemplation. Even as Irving coddles his bible, flipping its pages, he eyes it with satisfaction and ease rather than fear.

It’s when Irving moves to kiss him again, unafraid and unhindered, that Edward finally realizes what else he has driving him onward, now. Something he’s found for himself, something chosen by his own heart.

For this he will maintain himself, and this ship, and her crew. For this he will face uncertain futures for the hopes of a better one. When they return home, world-weary but alive, they can find means to live. They can find peace with themselves, and God, and whoever else necessary.

That thought alone mends some ancient crack in his soul.

Suddenly home doesn’t seem quite so far away.

**Author's Note:**

> You know, despite watching this show several times and reading some well-written analysis I'm still not really confident I know how to write these characters properly. Though I've observed a lot of conflicting variations in fandom interpretations, so I guess it doesn't matter.
> 
> Nevertheless, I wrote this one night maybe two months ago now and it's been in constant re-writing/editing hell ever since, so I finally decided to just put it out there anyways.


End file.
